


The Birth Of Mercury

by DictionaryWrites



Category: All New X-Factor, Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Conditioning, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:05:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3089687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a surprising person washes up on the beach Loki is training on, having come to Midgard to attempt conquering the realm in a new way, he realizes an opportunity that is simply too tremendous to pass on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Birth Of Mercury

“You ready?” Pietro glances up from his book, raising a silver eyebrow at his sister as he looks at her. Lorna's arms are crossed over her chest, and her mouth is twisted slightly; she looks somewhat unhappy, but their debrief is to be on the plane.

“Yeah. Are you?” Lorna lets out a sharp huff of sound, and nods her head for Pietro to follow her up to the jet. He's on before she is, of course, and the plane is a little below room temperature – it's not pleasant, not pleasant at all, and he runs on the spot for a moment to keep himself warm.

It's an unfortunate side effect of his superspeed: his body is accustomed to the higher temperatures one reaches when one's atoms are simply going that much faster. What was the number Hank McCoy had given when he'd done base testing on Pietro at his own speeds? 60 degrees, thereabouts?

Pietro is used to the cold, just like he's used to forcing his body to go slower than it ought just to talk to people, just like he's used to letting people think that the speed is the _extra_ , and not his default.

“S'not that cold, cher garçon.” Remy speaks lightly as he steps onto the plane, reaching forwards and trying to pat Pietro's cheek with his calloused hand, but Pietro dodges back and prevents the other man from touching him. “Aw, you hurt Remy's feelin's when you lean outta his way. Be nice to Remy: he still hungover from New Year's.” Pietro _tschooks_ with his tongue: that was _days_ ago.

“Remy hurts _my_ feelings when he talks about himself in the third person, like a Batman villain.” Pietro retorts crisply, and Remy laughs, dropping back into a seat. Pietro settles across from him, a scowl twisting his features in order to discourage any more _teasing_ sent his way.

He is saved nonetheless: Lorna and Doug come up onto the plane with Warlock and Danger in tow, and they soon take Remy's attention with more serious conversation.

Pietro listens off and on as Lorna outlines the mission, but it's not interesting talk, and the intricate parts won't be left to him anyway. He is always on duty saving people, moving them out of the way and keeping them safe, so the _large robot_ is not his priority.

It's a few hours into the flight that an odd sound catches his ear; a low _whistle_ , but he can feel it on the air, through his chest. Nothing like that should have a resonance without cause. He flickers to the window to look out, and his eyes go wide.

“Pietro?” Lorna asks. “What-”

The next word is cut off, because suddenly they're _plummeting_ and Pietro cracks his head _hard_ on the plane ceiling, letting out a sharp cry. He feels suddenly dizzy with the ache and ringing through his head on top of the falling sensation, and the edges of his vision start going dark.

“ _Lorna_ -” He tries to cry, but his tongue numbs half way through: when he hits it, the water is cold, but the slap of his impact makes his entire body _sting._

\---

Loki is training when it washes up; it is best, after all, that despite his new identity as a mutated human upon Midgard, he ought keep his seiðr skills up to scratch. Loki Svensson, often introduces himself as _Luke_ to escape the legacy of eccentric parents: that's his identity now.

Indeed, he's supposedly visiting his emigrant parents now, the two fairy tale Norwegians having moved to the Caribbean for the sake of the warmth, though it's something of a cover: Loki has his own island here, for training, for documents, for his _plans_.

The island itself is not on any maps, is enchanted to be hidden from any satellite imaging, photographic or thermal, and he's ensured he's not visible to any ships or boats: those that come too close to the island are meant to be destroyed.

He's to take over Earth, after all – such things ought be kept confidential.

But all the same, he stops short when something bright and _yellow_ passes in his peripheral vision. It's not irregular for rubbish to wash up on his shores, but it's not usually of the _human_ variety.

He takes fluid steps forwards, looking down at the young man – he looks about twenty five or so, yellow uniform, silver hair-

Something clicks.

The body washed up on Loki's beach, seemingly hidden from all, is that of Pietro Maximoff's. He recognizes that face, of course: in the seven months he has been ensconced within the cushion of his new identity upon Midgard, he has put much research into superheroes, their various teams and factions, into politics and ethics and religions of the planet.

If he is to blend in, he must be seamless, after all: he is not a lumbering oaf as Thor is, or as he was the first time he tried to _conquer_ this planet. Loki will make his way as the natives do: he will rule the planet through oligarchy, via _capitalism_. Loki will build himself an _empire_.

Of course, not if he is discovered by Quicksilver, but the man is unconscious, and Loki does not believe he could have found this island – it's pure coincidence. Small things can still was through his defences, after all, fish, rubbish, dead animals and the like. He'll have to tighten the wards about the island, but for the time being?

Pietro Maximoff will no doubt be a _terribly_ fun toy to play with.

He snaps his fingers and the pale, limp body raises from the ground, following him up the hill to his home, his feet making soft, crunching sounds on the frosted grass. The wards do not merely block out intruders and spying eyes, after all: the island has been adjusted to be suitable for his Jötunn blood.

He sets Maximoff down on his table, damp and sandy though he is, and suddenly Maximoff lurches, coughing out salt water with an inhuman rapidity. Loki lets him cough for a moment or two, smartly hitting his back to coax out the bits of _ocean_ in his lungs, and then he knocks the mutant out with a flush of magic to his forehead.

Loki then frowns slightly, pressing his hand to Quicksilver's forehead, and feels _heat_ come forwards. The boy is also shivering violently despite Loki's spell – Loki's home is not cold. He keeps it a little warm, that going outside can be that much more of a pleasure, but Maximoff seems to truly feel it.

Loki's mind is a sharp and clever one, and he processes the information: Pietro has superspeed. Speed can involve rapidly moving atoms. Rapidly moving atoms produce _heat_ : his body expects heat, expecting its own speed, but his body is still.

He considers that for a moment more, Pietro Maximoff's apparent sensitivity to the cold, and with that he looks back to his computer set-up to the side of the room. He'd been watching the news, earlier, as well as perusing the numerous documents that had been “leaked” (such a curious piece of slang) the year past, about the doings of SHIELD and Hydra.

Of Hydra, especially: he'd been glancing over the files of one James Buchanan Barnes. Although information as to his _missions_ had been redacted, that which referred to his conditioning was plain to read.

Previously, upon Earth, Loki had utilized the power of his staff with which to woo others to his side. He hardly needs an entourage of loyal servants now, but something like Barnes? A soldier to do his bidding?

He could remove each of the Avengers from circulation without ever having to _meet_ them with his new face and name. He could have them picked off one by one – and by one of their _own_ , no less.

Loki looks to Pietro Maximoff, sprawled out and shaking on his kitchen table, and a smirk comes to his face.

Oh, Pietro Maximoff will be a very useful tool _indeed_.

\---

When Pietro wakes up, he is cold. It's not comfortable, not comfortable at all – just a little below room temperature, he thinks, and he tries to shift, tries to move on the spot to get warm, but he is _restrained_.

“Hello there.” Pietro's eyes go wide as he stares up at the other man: he recognizes that dark hair, those eyes, those broad shoulders. _Loki_. “Feeling the _chill_?” Pietro speeds up further, vibrates violently in his place until the restrains slide _right through_ his flesh, and he dashes to flee, but before he can get past Loki's hand has closed around his throat, and he chokes as the God lifts him from the ground, _squeezing_ , squeezing-

He can't breathe. He can't _breathe_.

“That _is_ a clever trick.” Loki murmurs, and instead of being angry, he looks _pleased._

“You would know.” Pietro says hoarsely, and Loki chuckles, amused, _fond,_ even. Pietro's blood runs cold for _two_ reasons. He feels a familiar ozone tang on the air, recognizes it as _magic,_ recognizes it as clearly as he's ever recognized anything: he grew up with that lightning taste on his tongue and tickling his skin, and he knows it too well by now.

Pietro drops forwards against Loki because his limbs are weak and his eyes are going dark of their own accord, and the seiðr drags him into unconsciousness.

\---

Pietro is struggling to breathe. He's been struggling for days now, unable to sleep but for short, terrible pockets, and they had been odd and distorted things because he is not at his regular speed, incapable of _being_ fast, even within his own bodily function.

His atoms are too slow, and he is so, _so_ cold.

Pietro is held stiff in his chair by rope after rope, coiled about his wrists, his ankles, his chest and hip and thighs and neck. Magic now imbues his bonds, so he cannot vibrate himself through them to escape.

Loki keeps lowering the temperature.

“I will let you _go_ , you know.” Loki murmurs, and his cold fingers touch softly over Pietro's cheek: immobilized, he can't pull himself away. Instead, he lets out a harsh little sound, eyes closing shut.

“ _Fuck_ off.”

“Oh, you _sweet,_ innocent little creature.” Loki's breath feels _hot_ against his ear, and despite himself Pietro strains to be closer to that _heat_. He's so desperate for the barest bit of warmth, _needs_ to feel like his flesh is anything more than icy and numb, but Loki pulls away again.

Pietro barely restrains his sound of loss.

“I think it's a little warm in here, is it not? Come, I'll lower the heat.” Pietro _feels_ the temperature lower, the cold hair biting at his skin, and he grits his teeth. “Remember. I could take you out at any time – you need only do as I say.”

“ _Fuck off._ ” Pietro says again. His teeth begin to chatter.

In the darkness, he sees the glint of Loki's own as he grins.

\---

Maximoff is progressing quite nicely. He's docile, now, certainly; three weeks has Loki had him, and he doesn't try and struggle free any more. He accepts his lot, accepts the cold, though he still spits when Loki speaks to him, still hesitates or winces before he presses into Loki's warmth for more.

“Now, pet,” Loki says softly as he sets the empty plate at Pietro's side, and the mutant looks up at him tiredly. He is so _fatigued,_ so tired, so used to being forced to go slow. “I'll take you out of this room and into the warm.” Today is breaking day, Loki is certain. “You just have to do as I say, and stay at a _proper_ speed. Would you like that?”

Three weeks, for any other person, would not be so long, but for _this_ charming gem? It must feel like _years._

“Fine.” He says, quietly, mutedly, and Loki _smiles_.

Pietro lasts a few minutes before he tries to run, and Loki drags him once more into the _cold_. He nearly cries; it's terribly endearing.

\---

Loki is careful about carving the runes into the back of Pietro's chair, into the very _walls_ of the room. Pietro watches him warily, unable to even move his head: he is shaking violently now, but he cannot control it, and even still it occurs _slowly._

“What are you doing?” Pietro asks uncertainly.

“Magic.” Loki answers. “When is your birthday?”

“What?”

“Your birth date.” Loki says. Strategically, he has never called the young mutant by his _name_. He'll forget it, soon enough. “What is it?”

“I-” Pietro's eyes move as he tries to think, tries to remember. Loki puts his hand to the wall and lets his own seiðr flow through the lines and lines of runes he's carved into the stone of it: Pietro blinks, and then says, dully, “I don't know.”

“No.” Loki says, tone affectionate. “I suppose you don't.”

\---

**Four weeks:**

Pietro tries to speed, and Loki puts him in the cold room at minus one hundred degrees.

**Five weeks:**

Pietro asks if he will see his family again. Loki tell him if he can name his family members, he'll allow it. Pietro's brow furrows in desperate, careful thought, but he does not open his mouth again.

**Six weeks:**

Pietro doesn't use his speed without Loki's express permission. He cooks, he cleans: when Loki does not give him orders, he settles on the floor beside Loki's legs, cross-legged and leaning into the God for warmth.

**Seven weeks:**

“What's your name?”, Loki asks, and Pietro stares at him, blankly.

“You've not given me one.” He says, as if it's obvious. He's so malleable, so easily shaped so long as he's kept warm enough – like mercury, in a way.

“No,” Loki agrees. “Not yet. But soon.”

\---

“I think I ought give you a _name,_ now.” Loki murmurs into his pet's ear; he knows full well that he is so desperate for a little warmth, when he is forced to be constantly at Loki's speed and not at his own.

He's had him for three months, and he is truly docile now, desperate to please in order that he not be placed in the cold once more. Even a slight chill is bearable for him, so long as he not be thrown back in.

Loki's pet does not answer, he simply turns his head and looks at Loki with his lips pressed together, his expression almost _doleful._ “How about _Mercury_?” The silver-haired thing looks up at him for a few moments.

“Yes?” He's not so _used_ to being given choices, after all.

“Prune the roses outside, Mercury.” Loki orders cleanly. “You may use your speed.” Mercury _smiles_ at him. He does that, now; he knows of Loki, and Loki's orders, of his own speed. The magic has assisted with the rest – he remembers not his family, his _lover_ (Clint Barton, why, t'is a small world indeed), not his team or his past.

He knows only his master, and now, his new name.

Loki feels like penning a thank you note to Bucky Barnes.

\---

“Lean forwards, Mercury. Lie down over the bed for me.” Mercury looks at Loki for a moment, and then he obeys, settling on his belly. He is wearing no shirt at Loki's orders, but they are not to sleep, for it is only the early afternoon – and Mercury would be reluctant to sleep if they were to, for his dreams are always so _distorted_ and slow. “Now, pet, be _still._ Do not move a muscle.”

“Yes, Loki.” Mercury says softly, and he stiffens slightly in his place, his eyes closing as he does his best to go _completely_ still, but for the shift of his chest beneath him as he breathes.

And then there is _pain_ at his back, a little left of his spine as some blade bites into the flesh there, and he lets out a sharp cry of pain, because Loki had not said he couldn't do that. Loki _coos_ at him as he carves into Mercury's skin ( _but it's not his skin, not really, because he only belongs to Loki)_ , and he feels the heat of his own blood welling fro the wounds-

Then it's worse.

Mercury screams into the pillow as cold, cold agony sinks into the new wounds, and his fingers grip tightly at the sheets beneath him as he does his best not to _sob._

“Oh, there we go.” Loki purrs with a saccharine sweetness, and his hand gently strokes circles on Mercury's unbloodied shoulder, and his fingers are so _warm_ , so he does not complain. “All done.” Mercury can feel his skin healing, feel the _cold_ seep into his skin a little as his body moves fast to accommodate it.

“Wh- wha-”

“I've just made sure people know you're mine, pet.” Loki murmurs, and just hearing his voice makes Mercury feel much safer, for Loki is _everything_ , he's _always_ been with Loki. “I'm going to send you out soon.”

“Yes.” Mercury says, because he doesn't know what else to say in response to that. He feels seiðr tingle over his back, and he tastes the familiar, _ozone_ taste on the air – he has the sense that it should make him think of something more than Loki himself, but despite his attempts to think on the subject, nothing comes to him.

“Up.” Mercury obeys, and he settles him in front of full mirror on the wall, conjuring another mirror in thin air for Mercury to glimpse the marks Loki has seen fit to put on his back. The silver glints in the light streaming in through the window: Loki has carved runes into Mercury's back, and the flesh has scarred due to the silver kept in the flesh. “Do you _like_ them, pet?”

Mercury glances at Loki, who is _smirking_. He's not certain as to the correct answer.

“Yes?”

“I'm so _glad_.”

\---

“Kill him, Mercury.” Loki says.

Mercury looks to the man with his hands behind his back, a metal suit spread on the ground about him: he has short, brown hair, and a bizarrely sculpted beard. Mercury thrusts his hand through the other's chest and then puts it suddenly still, forcing his ribcage apart and his organs to give way.

The bearded man chokes, and drops down onto the ground before he fades into excess magic.

Mercury's brow furrows as he looks down at the gold dust fading into the air. For some reason, he feels like he has done _wrong._

“Who did you just kill, Mercury?” Loki asks.

“Tony Stark, Loki. He used to be Iron Man.” Mercury has been made to study a dozen files of different names – Tony Stark, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov, Bruce Banner, Thor Odinson, Nick Fury, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes... The list goes on.

The name “Clint Barton” tugs at him, but he does not know why.

“Are you ready to go out, Mercury? Go out and be my _soldier_?”

“Yes, Loki.” Mercury says. Why would he not be?

Loki _smiles_ at him, and his hand slowly cups the other's cheek, and his fingers are so _wonderfully_ warm. Mercury presses directly into the touch, his eyes closing as he appreciates the warmth that spreads over his skin.

“That's a good pet.” Loki murmurs. “Now, I've instructions, Mercury. You are never, _ever_ to kill Clint Barton. You may cause him damage, but never kill him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Loki.” Mercury says obediently. “What may I do for you now?”

Loki _grins_ at him.

“Oh, my sweet pet. You will do everything I _please_.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic is based off a new event I'm currently putting characters through on my [ RP blog](http://mutancyspeedandcharm.tumblr.com/), but it makes sense without having played with that Pietro.


End file.
